“You’ll have plenty of time to be with her, brother. I found it hard too. Sometimes I couldn’t wait till nighttime. There were times I’d take her there in the fields, whether or not anyone was around. Sometimes people would even call and say hello to us. Now, when I go home sometimes I’ll chop wood for her, check the horse’s hooves to make sure it’s not lost a shoe, currycomb it, tell her what needs sowing where, or planting, and she’ll pull me to her, but I’ll say, there’s a war on, Waleria, we need to fight the enemy, let’s leave lovemaking till afterward. It might be nice to do it with a different woman. It’s basically the same, but a different one would always be a bit fatter or thinner, she’d make different noises. With your own woman the only thing you have in common is your worries. And it’s a good thing God provides them, because what else would you do together? Even if you’re not at loggerheads, the two of you, all you do is turn your back on each other at night, you even keep the quilt between you so you won’t get too hot. With your own woman, I’m telling you, brother, it’s like being with yourself. You or her, you’re one body, tired or not, bad or not. It’s better to just have a drink, the result’ll be the same. Also, we’ve already made three kids, do we really want a fourth? Who knows what would lie in its future. Maybe it’d be unhappy? You think I’d have joined the resistance if things had been different? The hell with that. I’m eaten alive by lice, I never get enough sleep, on top of that I could get killed. At home no one was chasing after me, no one came for me, I turned in my levies, hogs, earmarked cows. Windows always blacked out at night. Whatever they demanded, I never said a word. Even the military policeman said to me, Herr Sadziak, goot, goot. But I couldn’t keep it up any longer.”
Rowan died in an attack on the prison in Oleszyce. And Sad Man didn’t let himself be comforted either. One night he took off to see how that young wife of his was doing all on her own. The boys advised him not to go, stay put, Sad Man. Rowan gave him the same advice, you want to know too much, brother, you might end up knowing what you shouldn’t. You’d be better off just getting drunk.
It was a starry night. The dogs in the village knew him so only the occasional one barked in its sleep. Their dog had been shot by the military police during a search, a thief could have come and there wouldn’t have been anyone to bark at him. He knocked on the window and waited for her to get up and appear there like a glowing light in her pure white nightgown, and she wouldn’t believe it was him, she’d think he was a glowing light like her. Then she’d rush to the door and unlock it, and fall into his open arms. All around there’d be the smell of lilac from all the bushes that grew by the house.
He knocked a second time, a little louder, but nothing seemed to be moving in the house and no one appeared in the window. He stood a while longer and listened and watched, then he tried the door. It was unlocked. He went in and said into the darkness, Christ be praised, he said, it’s me, are you there, Wandzia? But the only answer was a squawk from the brood hen in its basket under the table, because it probably thought someone was coming to take its little ones away.
He managed to find a lamp and light it, and he looked around. His Wandzia was asleep in bed with someone else. They were sleeping so soundly that when he held the lamp right over them, neither of them so much as stirred. The quilt was kicked off and the two of them were naked as the day they were born. The man at least had enough modesty to be lying curled up on his side, he must have been cold, or it was because he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed. Sad Man recognized him as Felek, the head groomsman at his wedding. But her, she was lying belly up, her legs gaping wide, all crumpled and spattered, one breast one way and the other the other, the only thing she had on was the red bead necklace he’d bought her at a church fair when they were courting.
On the table there were two bottles of moonshine, one completely empty, the other half finished, and slices of sausage and pickled cucumbers and bread that was cut like for an engagement party. They’d also made themselves scrambled eggs and they’d evidently both eaten from the same pan, because there were two spoons resting against it. And their clothes were scattered all around the room. Her skirt was all the way over by the stove, it might even have been that she made the scrambled eggs without her skirt on.
He made the sign of the cross over them, pulled out his pistol, and shot her and then him right where they lay asleep. The cat mewed in the stove corner, so he shot the cat as well. Jesus was hanging over the bed with his heart on the outside, and he shot the heart. The chicks got out from under the brood hen, he stomped on the chicks and shot the hen. He shot out all the windows in the house. He shot all the pots and all the plates. He even shot at the water bucket. When he’d had his fill of shooting he sat down at the table and drank what they’d left him, then he sang a little. At my wedding they were breathless all, for my wedding party was an all-night ball, yes indeed, oh yes indeed, death was all around and pain was near, but I was smiling from ear to ear, and may the good Lord be with us here, yes indeed. Then he dragged Felek the groomsman’s body off the bed, he lay down in his place next to his dead wife and he shot himself as well.
Rowan got up from the table to buy another drink, because for some reason Birchtree wasn’t giving us the signal, and it could have looked suspicious to sit there with empty glasses. The pub was crowded, everyone was drinking, so there must have been spies there as well. All of a sudden someone grabs me by the elbow.
“Aren’t you the Pietruszkas’ kid?”
I don’t look round, but the voice is somehow familiar.
“What, you don’t know your own godfather?” He sits down in Rowan’s seat, and he’s pie-eyed. “You know, the Pietruszkas, that live past the co-op? You had storks on your barn. I mended your stove years back.”
“Go away, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” The whole time I kept looking in the other direction. He turns around to the rest of the room, beats his chest, and says at the top of his voice:
“This is my godson!” And he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Except he won’t own up to his godfather!”
At this the whole place went quiet and I felt everyone staring at me in disapproval, what kind of louse would deny his own godfather.
Rowan comes back with a half-bottle and says, who’s this? I say, I’ve no idea, some guy’s latched on to me, claims he’s my godfather.
“What are you talking about, latched on to you, I’m your godfather! And you’re my godson, the Pietruszkas’ boy. Bring a drink for my godson!”
I could hardly control myself inside, I didn’t know what to do. Finally I leaned forward and said in a friendly way:
“Shut your trap. I’m not any Pietruszka, the name’s Eagle.” The other guy ups and yells:
“What are you talking about, Eagle? You’re the Pietruszkas’ son, I carried you to the altar in these arms. Are you denying your own mother and father?”
“I’m not denying anyone, but these are different times, understand?”
He smashed his fist on the table so hard the glasses jumped.
“I don’t care what times they are, you’re a Pietruszka! And I’m your godfather!”
“If he’s your godfather, ask him if he ever bought you anything,” said Rowan, all riled up. “I bet you didn’t get squat from him! Just like mine! Nothing, ever! They’re all the damn same, those godfathers. Want me to slug him for you?”
“Give it a rest. Let him be my godfather.” I even poured him a drink in my own glass, thinking he might calm down. But he got even more excited and started shouting again, blathering on about the Pietruszkas. I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed him by the neck like a goose and shouted in his face: